Puzzled
by B. Murakawa
Summary: Why is it Jack his mind always returns to, when he should be preoccupied with long flaxen curls and taffeta skirts? That eternal question, knocking through his brain. [one-sided Les x Jack]
1. Chapter One

Author's Name: Becky  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Content: Slash, fluffiness  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the Newsies. Disney does.  
  
Author's Notes: This popped into my head without any pre-planning on my part--I blame the sucky weather. I was wondering what sort of job Jack might have when he gets too old to sell papers, and it went from there. Anyway, a Daguerreotype is an old form of the modern photograph in case anyone doesn't understand what the heck I'm talking about later on in the fic. I'm no expert on the things, though, so...yeah. Reviews much appreciated--but that's a given.  
  
--Puzzled--  
  
If Les thinks about Jack too hard, it makes his head hurt.  
  
Back in his sixth year Math class, the professor was fond of giving the students complicated puzzles that seemed to have no answer--or an answer too complicated to comprehend. That's sort of what Jack is like. No matter how often Les sees him, speaks to him, he can't figure him out. No answers in those laughing eyes.  
  
He can feel a migraine coming. It's hard not to think of Jack, even if it goes against logic; there was a time when Jack wasn't Jack, he was the Cowboy, he was a hero. But now he's all too human, very real in an exciting sense that Les only began to notice when he turned thirteen. By then, Jack was moving on, upward in the world. None of the papers would give him a higher position than newsboy (unpleasant memories of the strike, Les supposes), so Jack bought a cheap little place on 14th Street and opened a Daguerreotyping studio. Everyone was shocked--David joked that from listening to him, you'd never have guessed Jack knew what a Daguerreotype is, let alone how to go about making one.  
  
"Light an' scenery, that's mostly all a fella needs in this business," Jack winked conspiratorially at Les when he asked, cautiously, why Jack chose such an unusual trade. "I'm pretty damned good at it, in any case, ain't I?"  
  
And he is. Les doesn't pretend to be a professional critic or anything, but he's looked at some of the Daguerreotypes, and they're fantastic. Women and men, children, scenes of Lower Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge, and the thing is, Jack makes it all seem new. Even the fruit vendor on the corner, who Les passes by every day, and the solemn face of his own elder brother, even those familiar sights are novel, different, captured forever in monochrome.  
  
There are other Daguerreotyping studios, but Jack's sunny smile and friendly manner attract more customers a day than many of them--something that Les is extremely proud of. Jack is doing great, just great. Maybe he dreams of Santa Fe, but he seems to be enjoying himself well enough right where he is.  
  
Still in school, Les can't wait to start his own life--because school is so far removed from the world of umph and go that Jack inhabits. He doesn't want to work in a factory, like his father, wasting away and worrying about money every second of the day. When night falls, and the lulling sounds of the Jacobs household (Papa snoring, Sarah murmuring something in her sleep, David drifting in and out of the room, trying to catch up with his work for the Sun) fill the small tenement, Les silently reaches underneath his mattress and pulls out the pages and pages of writing, scripts scrawled down hurriedly, scripts he hopes to perfect someday.  
  
How Jack, ex-street-urchin, managed to run into an instructor of photo-optics, no one can say, but Jack claims that he's been studying under a genius in the field for ages--which with Jack can mean a decade or a year. But however it came about, Jack now makes what he calls "real money"- -dollar bills instead of pennies and dimes.  
  
Les finds himself drawn to the studio much too often. He's fifteen now, old enough to spend time with his school friends at places he'd never dream of telling his mother about. But again and again, he politely declines any invitation to play stickball or take a trolley uptown and instead walks the short distance to 14th Street and the man he once called Cowboy.  
  
The puzzle confronts him at least once a week, and it's impossible to ignore the fact that Jack hasn't offered to marry Sarah, hasn't shown any interest in doing so, though he still grins and swings her around whenever they meet, kissing her cheek and waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "He's probably waiting until he can support her better," David says absently if Les happens to mention this. Makes sense, Les thinks, disheartened.  
  
Les would rather spend the afternoon in the studio silently watching Jack as he adjusts this and that (muttering to himself about shadows and chemicals), than spend the afternoon anywhere else in the world. And that's the part of the puzzle he has trouble with. When he wakes in the morning, breathless and aroused, trying desperately not to stir David, it's Jack he thinks of, and when he stops by the theatre (the few times he has enough money to do so), and sees the promotional posters of handsome men staring down at gorgeous women, he blinks and suddenly it's Jack and him.  
  
He wishes more than anything that he could talk to his brother about this, but the very prospect of facing rational, down-to-earth David and his blue eyes that snap with sarcasm and mellow when he's in the grip of some book--well, it makes Les's stomach churn.  
  
Why Jack, out of the millions of people in the world, why is it Jack his mind always returns to, why Jack when he should be preoccupied with long flaxen curls and taffeta skirts, why Jack? That eternal question, knocking through his brain. After that come the lesser questions, in a confusing flood: what would his mother think, how could he ever face his family again, and what about the other boys (the newsies and his schoolmates)? And, most importantly, what if Jack ever figures it out?  
  
Ignore him, Les tells himself. If you take this street a ways and turn right, you won't even have to see 14th, or his face. You never have to see him again.  
  
...But he can't do it.  
  
So here he is, cross-legged on the floor, a schoolbook open on his lap, eyes darting from dry equations to Jack, shifting the position of his latest subject. "Now, turn a bit--great, perfect, don't move a inch." Voice deeper than it was a few years ago. The whole process is a mystery to Les, and much of it takes place in a dark room that Jack won't allow anyone to enter. But at the moment, Jack stands behind a large, complicated device about two-thirds his height--a camera--biting his lip in thought. Across the room sits a young woman, her shoulders straight and thin mouth unsmiling. The smell of the chemicals combined with the heat is stifling, but Les is used to it by now.  
  
Jack fiddles with the lense, then nods decisively. "Ready, ma'am? Here goes--"  
  
Seconds pass, and then it is done. The woman waits patiently while Jack retreats into the dark room and returns at last with the completed picture.  
  
Les is pretending to focus on his mathematics when a shadow falls over him and Jack hauls him to his feet, the book, paper, and pen falling to the floor, forgotten. "Hey, kid, you gotta be sick 'a that stuff. Whaddya say we take a break...get supper?"  
  
"Oh--yeah!" Les exclaims, blushing a second later when he realizes how pathetically eager that sounded. Just make yourself obvious, he thinks irritably. Just go on and lick his boots.  
  
They're waiting in line at an ice-cream stand--Les's mother will kill Jack if she ever catches wind of this, no matter how strongly Jack insists that ice-cream is a suitable meal--when Jack suddenly looks at Les as if it's the first time he's seen him in a long time. "You," he remarks, left eyebrow going up, "you ain't a kid anymore, though, Les." Blinks. Tousles Les's smooth brown hair, completely unlike David's twisted locks. Les offers to help pay, but Jack won't hear of it and instead offers up seven cents for their two cones, both chocolate.  
  
They walk as they eat, both making utter messes of themselves. Les notices the ring of chocolate around Jack's mouth, dribbling down his chin, and snickers. "You look like one of them, whaddyacallem's, Genies."  
  
"Quick," Jack teases, large hand resting on Les's shoulder, "make a wish."  
  
I want to lick that ice-cream off your face. Mental slap. Les chews his tongue. "I want..." Helplessly shrugs. "I dunno. A notepad," he finishes weakly.  
  
"Ha ha, nice try. Eh, c'mon, Les, you know you want a pretty girl or...or an aeroplane, or somethin' like that. Somethin' excitin'."  
  
"You're plenty excitement enough, thanks," dryly stated, hiding the double meaning.  
  
"I think Davey's bein' a bad influence on you. Makin' you almost practical and stuff." Smiles so gleefully it makes Les's heart ache. "Ya need to hang around the ol' Cowboy more often."  
  
"I hang around you too much as it is," protests Les. "I'm always in your way after school and, and on the weekends too."  
  
"Nah, you ain't in the way."  
  
Oh. That puzzle, again, its walls thrusting forth the little things-- all the times he's wanted to touch Jack, take off the bandana they both love, kiss that incredible mouth--and nearly forcing Les to lose himself in...oh, so he isn't in the way.  
  
So maybe Jack likes having him around?  
  
"I. I'm g-glad," Les chokes. Needs to get away and process all of this. Put it together. Try to understand. Why Jack? Where's the exit, and what will he do when he gets there?  
  
He isn't sure. But Les doesn't need a camera to imprint in his mind the image of Jack laughing, the wind blowing his hair about his face. They wipe their mouths on their sleeves, ice-cream devoured. "Er," Les says, unable to think of anything more intelligent. Jack must think he's a total idiot. "I kind of. Want. Well. I write, a little. In my free time. Just. Not anything really great." Staring at the sidewalk now, boy, isn't that crack interesting?  
  
"Write?" Coarse chuckle, so unlike the feminine giggles he should be listening to. "Write what? Penny-novels?"  
  
"No, no. Nothing like that." His hands make signs in the air, then drop back to his side. How to explain. "Like...like Medda. Broadway. Plays, scripts, but right now, just rough drafts. I don't have. Don't have a lot of time, you know?"  
  
"Aaaaaaah, I get it. Our little Les is gonna be a reg'lar Shakespeare."  
  
"Ha! Me? No way. It's just something...I like doing it."  
  
"Mm hm." Looks unconvinced. But Jack doesn't push it. Les respects him for it. "I gotta be gettin' back. An' you need to be headin' home, ki- -Les."  
  
Les wonders what Jack would do if he ever realized that Les would be content to sleep on the wooden floor of the studio, head pillowed on one of his schoolbooks. 14th Street again, in the studio, gathering his books and letting his gaze linger on Jack for a second before forcing himself to say goodbye.  
  
"'Bye," Jack calls distractedly, his attention imprisoned by some picture or another.  
  
The sun is getting tired, drifting wearily down from the sky. It's twilight by the time the Jacobs tenement is in sight. And Les isn't thinking of Jack, for once. Well, not really. He's thinking of the West, and the sunsets there, and how the horizon is clear and empty, no dead buildings and no streetlamps and maybe. Maybe if he and Jack were there, it would only be the two of them.  
  
Steps lightly up the stairs, lost in thought. Throws open the door to Sarah's humming and his mother's furrowed brow and says, "I'm home." 


	2. Chapter Two

Author's Notes: I listened to "First Love"--Piano Version, by Hikaru Utada the entire time I was writing this...er, hopefully it won't be exceedingly sappy or anything. About Jack's studio: there's a front room where customers have their pictures taken, a back room where Jack lives, and the "dark room", which is where the Daguerreotypes are developed. Hopefully, that'll prevent any confusion and etc. To my reviewers: thanks a bunch. You guys rock my boat...I mean, glad you like it.  
  
--Puzzled - Chapter Two--  
  
"You've been acting funny, lately," David says suddenly. His hands are ink-stained, propping up his chin. Les wishes he could have hands like David's, which are big and square, powerful, though it's absurd to think that David would ever use those hands for anything other than holding a pen.  
  
"Funny?" Casually turns the page of his Math book so David won't notice the plot outline he has doodled on the side of what should be a page full of calculations. The image of the West is stuck in his mind, and it's something to do with cowboys and freedom and riding off into the sunset. "Funny, like, humorous funny?"  
  
"No," David frowns and stares pointedly at the pile of books open before his younger brother. Les is actually finished with every subject except Math, which he despises with a fiery passion. "Why didn't you finish that this afternoon?"  
  
"Well--" Les stalls, fingering the frayed corner of one of the books. He can't lie and say he stayed after school, because David will check with Jack, and then he really will be up the creak without a paddle. "Well, it's a lot to do. I'm not so good with numbers."  
  
"Uh huh." Knows Les is skipping around something, but can't figure out what it is, let alone prove it. "Seems like your head is always in the clouds, is what I meant by 'funny'."  
  
"Oh, yeah? Let me just tell you--I am the picture of practicality. I really am." Crosses his arms and wonders if that sounded childish. Yes, it must have, he decides a moment later when David smiles in that way he has, that way that makes you feel like the dumbest person on earth. "Shouldn't you be doing...whatever it is you've been doing for the past hour?" Without waiting for a reply, Les slips into the shelter of his and David's bedroom. The lights of the city stream in through the curtains his mother so painstakingly sewed years before, strange patterns on the floor, like a secret language. Pushes the curtains aside and opens the window, breathing in the muggy late spring air. Somewhere in New York, at this very moment, Jack is dreaming away the night. Maybe he's fallen asleep at his desk, or maybe he made it to the small cot in the back of the studio.  
  
Slams the window shut without thinking, chills going up and down his spine despite the heat. He really just wants this to be easy. The only way for that to happen is for him to forget about Jack Kelly and fool around with some girl--any girl. But. But what's easy isn't something he can live with. He sinks onto the sagging bed, wearily unbuttoning his shirt, the fabric rustling as he pulls it off.  
  
So what is he? Some kind of freak? Some kid hung up on a childhood crush?  
  
He doesn't remember closing his eyes, but suddenly sunlight is prying them open, and a second later his mother enters the room, whisps of graying hair falling out of her simple bun. He can't think of a time when she wasn't clothed for a hard day's work--cleaning and knitting and making little knick-knacks to sell. He's never seen her in a night-gown, in anything less than an austere dress and apron. "Up, sunshine," she smiles affectionately, placing a clean set of clothes at the foot of the bed. Les notices that David is long gone, his bed made up perfectly--time for school, then.  
  
In the kitchen, Sarah places before him two pieces of bread with preserves smeared on them like clumpy paint, and a glass of slightly warm milk. He thanks her and she murmurs something back that he doesn't catch. She, like his mother, has been up for hours and she sits across from him now, yards of fabric falling out of her thin lap. Makes small talk and laughs at his occasional jokes, though he suspects she doesn't have much of a sense of humor, herself. It occurs to him that the only reason she is here now, at the age of twenty-three, is because she is waiting for Jack, and guilt slides into his belly like poison.  
  
The day passes slowly, time going up-hill on cement feet. He's given extra homework as punishment for not completing last night's assignment, but he's not the only one, he's relieved to see. Released at noon for lunch, Les spends the hour arguing with the boys about something he wholly forgets by one o' clock, and regretting that the studio is too far from the school for him to visit and hope to return on time.  
  
Freedom, at last, breaking into what is left of the day; a boy asks him if he wants to go to City Hall with a few friends and shoot some craps or something--"No," Les says, ruefully, "I got some stuff to do back home. You fellas understand, doncha?" They do, and they give him a large dose of boyish sympathy before bounding off.  
  
Then it's just Les and the city, people breezing by him like gods on a mission. Stops to chew the fat with a newsie who slaps his back and sells him a paper he won't get around to reading--and then he's nearly racing down 14th Street.  
  
The studio is dark, and for a frenzied moment, the irrational fear that Jack really has decided to hop on a train to Santa Fe overcomes him and he shouts, "Jack! Hey, JACK!"  
  
"Chill, I'm in the back," the muffled voice turns his legs to water, and he stumbles into the back room (almost painfully plain with nothing but the cot Jack sleeps on and a few books on a rickety table) where Jack bends over a collection of Daguerreotype plates. The door to the dark room is open, and Jack asks him to close it.  
  
"Been really messin' with this new technique. Think I may nearly..." His words digress into unintelligible mumbles.  
  
Embarrassed, Les stutters an explanation which he isn't entirely sure Jack hears. He sits on the edge of the cot and observes as Jack takes one of the plates into the dark room, then returns a second later. For the sake of at least looking productive, Les pulls out a schoolbook (he notices with a groan that it is his Math book) and a pen and lays both on his lap. Comfortable silence takes over, and Les scratches down half thought out answers.  
  
"So, Les," Jack says at length. "Where you workin' these days?"  
  
"Nowhere." Les twirls his pen in the air and misses it. "My folks want me to complete my schooling, first. Now that David's in with the Sun, we're not so pinched. When he gets his own place...I guess that'll be different, but that probably won't be for a while. David's got those...those things." Snaps his fingers, trying to bring up the right word.  
  
"Obligations?" Jack ventures.  
  
"Yeah, those."  
  
"Hey." Jack gives him a look that makes his face heat up. "Look, wouldja let me take ya picture?"  
  
Les is startled. He's never had his picture taken, but he's entertained a ridiculous number of fantasies that involve Jack, Daguerreotypes, and a scant amount of clothing.  
  
"Today's a slow day, an' all," Jack is saying, "An' I really wanna test this out, but these plates ain't turned out right. You won't hafta sit for too long, an'--"  
  
"Y-yeah, sure. Sure, you can. You can do whatever you want, Jack." Anything in the world you want to do, he adds mentally. Anything at all. Even--whoa. Shakes his head to clear it, and forces a bright smile.  
  
"Great! Just go into the front an' make yourself comfor'ble--you know, lots 'a people think they gotta be all stiff an' formal, but I personally like a picture 'a someone smilin' more than anythin' else. An' you got a great smile."  
  
"Really?" As Les seats himself in the same chair hundreds of customers have occupied, Jack ties back the window curtains--much more ragged than the ones in Les's bedroom--letting daylight fill the room, golden and wonderfully hot.  
  
"Yeah, really." Behind on the camera now, staring at Les and forcing his eyes out of focus to see the boy only in terms of light and shadow, Jack strides over and tilts Les's chin up and to the right. "There. Okay, now, you know the routine, chum. Don't move or I'll soak ya."  
  
Les stares at the blank eye of the camera and freezes up. Like looking into oblivion or hell or whatever. Jack's voice, coaxing: "Smile, Les, c'mon."  
  
He thinks I have a great smile, Les thinks, and then he beams, tingling all over with something he can only identify as a vague sense of happiness but what is closer to euphoria.  
  
An hour later he's walking home, humming under his breath and stopping sporadically to stare at his own cheerful face, caught in some unburstable bubble in time. "Here, keep this one. For bein' so coop'rative. Give it to ya mama or somethin'," Jack said as Les prepared to leave the studio, but Les thinks he'll keep this. He doesn't ever want to forget this day, will die before he lets even one detail slip away.  
  
David gives him a probing look when Les bounds into the tenement and kisses his mother on the cheek, happily helping Sarah with the dishes, but the boy couldn't care less. 


	3. Chapter Three

author's notes: this was written months ago, but never finished. finally, i got off my lazy butt and wrote an ending. enjoy.

**Puzzled - Chapter Three**

The summer of 1904 is sweltering, and the newsies bake under the heat of the relentless sun. Those unfortunate enough not to own a pair of boots soon limp around on feet blistered by the cobblestoned streets.

Les is Boots' selling partner, and the two boys spend the long days trekking up and down the city, ducking into the comparative coolness of shops and delis. Usually, both sell out of the morning edition in time for the afternoon, and they eat their lunch on the run.

When he has the time, Les tries to decide which he dislikes more, working within the confining walls of the school, or breaking himself out on the streets. The Manhattan newsies are an amusing bunch, even without some of the older boys (Racetrack Higgins and Kid Blink and especially Jack), and as long as he makes a reasonably decent profit, Les agrees with Boots when he says that this is the best of all possible jobs a boy can get.

"You can bet," Boots, who is nearly old enough to start looking for a "grown-up" job, tells Les with a knowing look in his eyes, "you can bet that jobs was funner before factories an' the like. Used to, a fella could spend the day fishin' an' lookin' after sheeps an' when he got home, he won't dyin' on his feet."

And Les nods like he knows what Boots is talking about. He doesn't want to admit that he's never seen real sheep, only white ovals of fluff in romantic paintings of the countryside.

Selling keeps him busy, and his and Boots' route doesn't include 14th Street. Les only sees Jack on Sunday mornings, his brown hair slicked back and shirt tucked in--Sarah loves him like this, and her voice is hushed when she speaks to him--whispering prayers to her god.

"Carryin' the banner, eh, Les?" Jack comments, a shadow behind his guarded smile. And Les shrugs numbly, murmurs something about classes ending for the year and how even the little bit of money he makes helps "in the Long Run", as his father says. His father who he rarely sees except at night, after his shift at the factory is finally over.

His mother scolds them for discussing work--this is the only day they are all together, can't they just enjoy it without work, work, work? All she ever hears about is work. Les wants to point out that all she ever does is work, too. But she's been against Les's selling papers from the very beginning--reflections of life in rural Poland, where kids helped on the farm, in the fresh air of the country and far from the smoky skies and roaring crowds of New York--and Les thinks it wise to stay on her good side and not say anything.

David is away more and more often. The Sun keeps him on his feet with stories that David admits are pretty bogus--but nothing like the tales that the World and Journal spin out. "Stay with it," his father says proudly, "You'll get a better position eventually." And David smiles and quotes his father's words back at him: "In America..." In America, a man can do anything simply by working hard enough. Believing strongly enough. Perservering long enough. 

Les watches the dark circles under David's eyes become still darker, and the creases on his brow deepen. One night, as they sit (together and yet alone) at the kitchen table, David straining his eyes over a sheet of paper covered in writing, Les chewing on a piece of bread and meat his mother saved him from dinner, Les asks him what it is all for. "I mean," he quells under his brother's peircing gaze, "I mean to say...oh, what's the point of working at all, Davey? It's as if for every hour of rest, there's a day of hard labor, in the office or on the docks, wherever. When do we get a break?"

David stands and leaves the room without saying anything.

The next day, Les pauses on his way to the World distribution center. The bookstore has two faces, like everything else. Through the glass doors are historical books, famous books, books written by world-renowned playwrights and philosophers. And in a crate outside, stacks of penny-novels with pictures of cowboys and Indians and damsels in distress on the covers. Les buys one of these and sticks it in his pocket, a reassuring weight as he runs to meet Boots.

In the relative privacy of his and David's room, he pulls the book out and examines it. Messy, bright colors and the arrogant face of a hero, a cowboy, glare back at him. Ropes and horses and wide open spaces--Jack would love this. Places the book on the bedside table and gets on his knees, the hard wood of the floor scraping his skin through his trousers. Holding up the mattress, grabbing for the half-finished scripts, pulling them into his lap.

Maybe his father is right. Maybe if a man can dream of something and go for it with all of himself, he can make it in this crazy city.

Summer drifts lazily into autumn, and Les writes constantly, feverishly, in a miniature notebook Jack gives him for his birthday--memories of ice-cream and Jack the impromptu Genie. The characters slowly gain voices and souls, dancing into a semi-reality that Les becomes enraptured with. Dialogue and stage commands drift in and out of mind even after school commences and he says goodbye to Boots and selling papers.

"You're really into it, ain't ya?" Perched on his work-desk, Jack watches Les scribbling away, back against the western wall of the studio.

Les stares at him, eyes glazed in thought. The puzzling way Jack has of making his heart beat at twice its normal rate. The book on the bedside table, which he hasn't read yet. And the notebook open across his midsection. "Yeah," he responds, laughing softly, "I am. I really am."

He skips classes the next morning and makes his way to Irving Hall, whistling a tuneless song as he enters through the back and calls, "Medda!"

She's older, now, and he knows she has to smear her pale face with cosmetics to create the illusion of rosy cheeks and pink lips. Her hair is still dyed that brilliant red, though, and her voice cracks open the silence. Down the stairs, clad in a blindingly pale green dress, she enfolds him in a perfumed hug.

"It's been forever, kid," she kisses his cheek and he blushes. "You were here last...what, half a year ago? All of you boys, you forget old friends as soon as another pretty face shows up..." Grabs his elbow and leads him into an ajoining room, where she ushers him to sit in a faux-velvet cushioned chair and offers him a plate of sweets from which he selects a handful of licorice whips.

"Business is great," she says enthusiastically when he asks. "I get...why, I get nearly a full house every night. Mostly men, but some ladies, too, and you know, not all of them're from this end of the city. The next show is a few hours from now, no, don't worry about rushing yourself. How's Kelly, huh?"

"He's fine. Got a commission from the mayor himself. Hey, Medda..." He twists his hands, nervous. Sure, he's thought about this, but thinking and doing are two entirely different things. "I got a favor to ask of you."

"Go on, then," she smiles. "If I can help, you know I will."

Later, shuffling away from Irving Hall, his mind all in a jumble. She's probably in there now, reading through the finished scripts and laughing at his foolishness. Goes into a really seedy looking restaurant, buys himself a beer (the owner doesn't even look twice at his youthful face) and suspiciously green soup which he inhales in two minutes flat, anyway.

Then somehow he's outside the studio, hand positioned over the brass door-handle. Pulls softly, and there's Jack, his Jack, counting out money, shuffling papers, and muttering about how he'd do anything for a personal secretary. But Les can't make himself go in, doesn't want to confront that puzzle today, so he wanders aimlessly, stopping here and there as his fancy commands--watches a fight between a shop-keeper and a customer, helps an Italian woman catch a renegade chicken.

That night, he sleeps with the Western penny-novel under his pillow, despite the initial discomfort--he can imagine that it's Jack he's laying next to if something that reminds him so strongly of Jack is near. He can imagine Jack laughing like his whole life is sunlight and joy--Jack reaching out for him and touching him and, and _kissing_ him--

Morning comes too soon. Dreams fade into gray, and he's left with a terrible sense of emptiness and anger at the world in general. What's the point? When does all the work and all the pain begin to pay off? He slips the smiling face of the cowboy enblazoned on the two-dimensional cover of the book into his pocket, and tries to forget about it.

He can't. He mouths off at everyone he comes across, making Sarah weep bitterly and David slap him, shocked by his little brother's behavior--"Well, I'm _sorry_ if I'm not who you want me to be--so GODDAMN SORRY!" Runs from the house and just _dares_ anyone to come after him. Ten minutes later, trudging to 14th, he's all the more angry that no one did.

Surprised look on Jack's face when Les comes sweeping in, rage boiling around the younger boy like a cloud. Les plops down on the floor, buries his face in his knees, and breaks into shameful, hot tears. He yells and screams and curses and slams his fists on the hard wood floor, the stinging pain a reminder of all the little bad things that never seem to go away, but add up so quickly, like bricks on a wall, or sand in an hourglass.

"Hey, kid, hey," Jack mutters very near him, and Les gives a start--Jack is kneeling next to him, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other stroking his hair almost unconsciously, like it's something natural and good. 

"Jack," the name whispered hoarsely and it holds so much meaning that Les wants Jack to understand and yet he's afraid that if Jack ever catches on, it'll tear them both apart, somehow. "Jack, I--" Jack, I want to stay here forever. "I--can I have some water?"

Jack nods and is gone, only to return with a tin-cup (a remnant of his days as a newsie, no doubt) that he presses into Les' shaking hands. No questions asked. Jack doesn't probe, doesn't demand anything, and Les is grateful. After draining the water, Les says quietly, "I'm sorry."

"No problem, Les. I gotten so used to ya hangin' 'round here, on the days ya don't come I..." Jack coughs and doesn't say anything more. It's all the things we leave unsaid, Les thinks a little dazedly. All those things, they make up who we are and why we do the things we do.

"Thanks, Jack," Les says, more gently than he means to.

Jack grins brightly, pats Les' shoulder, and returns to his work.


End file.
